When Meg had finished dinner, and was sitting down to her needle, there was a tap at the door, and on saying "Come in," Mrs. Blunt with her two babies appeared in the doorway.
"Well?" asked Meg, smiling.
"Well," said the woman, sinking into the seat Meg pushed forward, "when they came in they sniffed and looked about, and asked where the loaf was, and peeped into the milk-jug, and then they spied the saucepan, and came over as curious as anything to see what it was. I told 'em as it was a present to 'em, but they had no call to eat it unless they liked; and with that I poured out a little into the basins. Some of 'em was that hungry that they didn't think twice about it, and after a mouthful or two that they wasn't sure about, they finished what I gave 'em, and asked for more! That they did—all but one of 'em, and she turned up her nose at it and stuck to the bread."
"Did they finish it?" asked Meg.
"All but a bit I put by for their father. And they told me to say as they was much obliged, and hadn't had such a nice hot dinner I don't know when."
Meg was delighted. She got up to look into her little bread-pan, and the woman's eyes followed her curiously.
"I wish I could see ye do it," she said, "'cause I've heard as it's a deal cheaper."
"Of course it is," said Meg; "and if you have to stay at home to mind your babies, you could not use some of your time better. Mother used to say it went quite twice as far as baker's bread. I'll show you how to do it next time I bake. I don't do it every day, because we don't need it."
"Will you?" asked Mrs. Blunt earnestly.
"That I will. I'll let you know when to come."